The thing that killed me most about living up north was... well, actually, it was the cold. But hand-in-hand with that miserable bitter Arkansas cold and ice was the fact that it was miserable dry. Even when it rained, it was this dribbly old-man-with-a-kidney-stone piss that did nothing but make the leaves slippery. I've seen worse: in my brother's former high desert home the rain evaporated on the way down, so that you could see it, but not quite touch it.

There's nothing I hate more than being dry.

In California, people are obsessed with fire. Earthquakes bring fire; cigarettes thrown from windows bring fire. Burning Man was nothing but this big tribal urge to embrace that which ye fear (in my humble opinion). When we moved there, we didn't see rain for months, and it began to drive me crazy. I started staring out the window for ten-minute stretches begging the skies for rain. When it came, it was a dribbly piss, and I was happy for it.

But now it's raining.

The sky's been darkened all day. At noon it looked like 6am. At this latitude that means summer rain. And it pours. And it drenches. And it soaks. And it grumbles and booms with energy. It's music to my water-loving ears.

A lightning strike burned a historic building on FAU's campus to dust. A lightning strike fried a friend of mine's AV equipment at his house. He'll have to spend 100's if not 1,000's of dollars to replace it all. The afternoon was spent to the sounds of rainfall, thunder, and ambulance sirens. And for it all, I could not be happier to be home.